Supernova
by castielanie
Summary: College!AU. Jean Kirstein is an aspiring author, but his first day at college is not an easy one in the least– but he seems to have found someone as his inspiration.


"These… these are amazing! Mr. Kirstein, did you write these?"

Jean looked behind him to the voice, squinting to reduce the glare of the sun in his eyes. He grimaced at the obvious question, and the scuffed notepad of poems that had obviously fallen out of his bag along the walk to his first class of the semester.

"Give me that back," Jean barked as he reached at the hands of a professor, whose subject he had forgotten. The neat, blond man lowered his gaze to him, and gave him a scolding look that could have burned his eyebrows off.

"I… Sorry, Professor Smith. Could I have that back, please?" Jean was annoyed that he hadn't realized the professor had been trailing him, reading his poems– which were meant to be private– but he remained calm so he wouldn't get put on the bad kids list on his first day as a grad student. "Of course, Mr. Kirstein– if I may, however, I believe you'll be a fine student to have in my creative writings course," Professor Smith said as he handed back the notepad.

Damnit. It all rushed back to him: Professor Erwin Smith, published author of a best-selling psychological-thriller trilogy and seven other novels, and professor of Journalism 101-104 and Creative Writing 101-105 at Columbia University in New York. I don't think I'm getting off to good start so far.

Luckily, the Professor verged ahead of Jean after an awkward nod of thanks, and the two walked separately to the writing classroom. Jean flipped through the notepad, skimming some of his worse works, laughing at how incredulously dumb he'd been. There were at least six pages of bad break up poems, three of overly dramatic enigmas of a teenage boy's mind and a whole page where he wrote the word 'licorice' so he would finally learn how to spell it. He still got it wrong, more often than he'd like to admit. There were a couple of verses in that five year old notepad that he was proud of, however; which was a stretch, for him.

Jean walked into a large forum about fifteen minutes before the beginning of class, and was relieved to find only five people in the room. Professor Smith was reading at his desk, two students were sitting by themselves on opposite sides of the room, and the other two were standing on the wall, chatting and laughing and kind of misrepresenting the first-day-of-college experience. Jean sat down in the center, a few rows back from the front, and hoped no one who smelled weird sat next to him.

The boy flipped to a blank page and begin to scribble; any words that really came to mind, maybe a sketch, maybe an idea or a plot point– which was the only way he knew of piecing things together. Before he realized, the room's chairs were filled, even the one's on either side of him, and Professor Smith began to speak. "Good morning, class! You all have your syllabuses, and I would hope all of you can read above a fourth grade level, so I'm not going to waste either of our time going over it." He raised his hand and pressed a small clicker's button with his thumb. "Get out your notebooks and laptops, and begin working on this prompt. All I'll tell you, before you start, is that as long as you have passion, and creativity, this will be your easiest class of the semester. You'll need it in this place. Especially if any of you have Professor Chevalier." Jean chuckled at the professor's displeasure that rolled off his tongue with that name, but his smirk quickly turned to fear as he remembered, Shit. I have Professor Chevalier. Goddamn French VI.

The time went by quickly; Jean rolled through the prompts that Professor Smith threw at them, the words spilling out faster than his fingertips could move, the verses moving to the beat of his heart and the ink running off the page like water that he could feel seeping into his shoes as the shocks ran through his body like jolts of electrifying rain–

"Alright, students! Time's up. Head on to your next class so you won't be late." Jean had to take a few seconds to recollect his thoughts; it was rare when he got into his writings, but when it did happen, he was gone. Sometimes, he would even blackout– without any recollection of the passed time besides the words that lay on the pages in front of him.

Jean collected his things and slung his bag over his shoulder, checking his schedule in his phone to see where to he was headed next. "When you write, you get pretty into it, huh?"

Jean looked over and met the eyes of a kid, a little taller than him, with brown eyes, a sprinkle of freckles across his cheeks, and a thin lisp in his voice that sounded… French? No, Dutch. Flemish, maybe? "Oh… sorry. I'm Marco." The boy held out a hand to shake, and Jean complied, a little shaken by the question. Was it that noticeable? I can't be that transparent. "I guess I do. It doesn't happen often though."

Marco smirked, and looked down at his shoes, letting out a small chuckle. "Well, anyway… it would be cool to get to know you– I guess we sit next to each other now, and I don't know anyone here, and I'm kind of bad at making friends…plus, I think I'd like to read something of yours, sometime." Marco hoped that didn't come off too strong– he did find Jean extremely attractive, but he wasn't trying to bang him. At least not at the moment. He still wanted to be friends with him, and he was always eager to read other writer's works. He know that took a lot of trust in someone to allow them to read their works, and cherished whenever someone did.

"Ah… I guess, sure. I'm Jean Kirstein." Jean tried to sound optimistic– at least he didn't smell weird. "What class do you have next?"

"French History 101 with Professor Zoë. You?"

Jean smirked a bit, and exited through the classroom door in front of Marco. "Same, actually. I guess I have someone to sit next to now, huh?" Marco smiled, and Jean… did he blush? It felt like he was blushing. Oh God I'm blushing, why am I blushing.  
_

The next few days had turned to weeks; and before anyone realized, there was a month left in the semester. A fresh snow was falling in New York that morning, yet the streets were still busy as ever– and neither Jean nor Marco were strangers to the cold.

A lot had happened since the day Jean met Marco. Jean found out he was gay– that was definitely a big thing that happened. He also found out he made a best friend, and that he was in love with his best friend. Jean had no idea if Marco felt the same or if he was even into guys or if he would be into Jean. So he stuck to his scuffed, five year old notepad.

For the past month, Jean wrote at least a poem a day about him. The way his eyes caught the light when they were walking to class, or how his hair was always really messy and cute but also how he could clean up very nice… Like that one time when there was a black tie event at the arts center… Marco Bodt looks very good in a fitted suit.

He wrote about his freckles and made stupid analogies about how much he loved them, or how he was always telling stupid jokes to hear Jean laugh and Jean was yelling at things for no reason to hear Marco laugh… Jean didn't understand how he fell so hard, so quickly for this boy, but he did.

He wasn't sure what to do about it.  
_

A few days into the last month of the semester, Marco leaned over during Professor Smith's class and whispered over Jean's work. "Hey, are you gonna ask Mikasa to the mixer this weekend?"

College mixers are pretty lame, as far as they go, but in New York City, at least you get good booze. The ones in the end of the semester are a bit more fun than those in the middle or the beginning, too– Jean guessed the seniors try to end the year with a bang, either figuratively or… um, physically.

"I don't think so, man… she'd never say yes to me." Jean did think Mikasa was absolutely gorgeous, and talked to his friend about how he was going to talk to her one day, but that was kind of before he realized he was head over fucking heels for Marco.

"Come on, Jean, you won't know if you don't try!" Jean just shook his head and continued to bury his head in his sketchbook, drawing something up for a story idea he was working on. "Ugh, fine. I will make you ask her out." While Jean cursed him not-so-under his breath and continued to avoid eye contact, Marco got up, and stealthily slipped Jean's notepad of poems out of his bag. Carrying it under his jacket as he readjusted his bag on his shoulder, he stepped out of the forum for a little walk since his work for the day was finished, and took a seat on a cold wooden bench outside, watching the snowfall before he flipped through Jean's work.

Marco needed to find something he could use to make Jean ask out Mikasa from Professor Smith's class… Marco had admitted to himself that he would have a crush on her if he was straight. He chuckled at the thought, and was curious to what Jean really thought of her, flipping through his poetry to maybe find an answer. The first one that caught his eye was on the second to last full page, and Marco sunk into the bench as he read.

"Coming to college was the last thing  
that I expected to be a turning point in my life  
and it was the last place I expected  
to find love  
Among tests and textbooks  
among drug tests and drunken texts  
I found love in the hazel eyes  
and the late nights in which I lost sleep over them  
Thinking about kissing the lids that covered them  
or the lips that spoke underneath them  
or thinking about how much better it would make my life  
if I could kiss them  
or if they kissed mine back.

-j.t.k."

Marco stared at the page, and kind of realized just how in love Jean was, which was a total bummer. He's liked Jean since that first day in Writing class, and he was always on his mind. Marco never wanted to risk ruining the friendship they had already grown into, so he dealt with the longing, and encouraged him to find a girl he liked, so Marco could see him be as happy as he would be with Jean. The longing still hurt, though.

A thought hit him though; Mikasa's eyes were no where near hazel– they were more black than brown. Marco flipped to a different page, and skimmed over jotted handwriting and small sketches of faceless figures…

"Sometimes I think he was born of the stars  
that his laugh is the sound of a supernova  
and his freckles are made of stardust  
And sometimes I think he may love me back  
If I was the product of a forming nebula  
Sadly I am but a planet  
Made of cold earth and liquid rage  
That I have no choice but to keep inside  
So that I may not risk hurting the stars  
That surround me ever so dangerously close.

-j.t.k"

Marco's heart dropped down into his stomach, into his feet, into the underworld– a smile spread across his face, and he closed his eyes so tight that he thought the cold would have frozen them shut, his cheeks ached with soreness and from the cold and from love, love, so much love that it made his head want to explode into the bang of a supernova.

Marco met Jean in Professor Zoe's class a little while later, and slipped the notepad back into his bag, luckily without the boy noticing. He seemed to make it through the 90-minute period without smiling too much, which he commended himself for, but he thought that Jean may have caught him one too many times.  
_

Marco laid in bed that night, his arms folded behind his head, or sometimes gripping a pillow, wishing it was a relief of stress or wishing it was Jean himself. He thought of stardust, and of supernova, and of Jean's neat hair and the glasses he would wear when he forgot his contacts or of the way that his voice would move based on how much passion he kept for something… Marco had spent too many nights crying into pillows and dreams, or spilling emotion into his computer or to his beagle Winchester, but tonight, Marco's eyes wept not for absolution or longing, but wept of solidarity, and of companionship, and of life and love…

The weekend had come ever so quickly, and Marco had decided to try one more time to get Jean to ask out Mikasa. "It's Saturday, Jean. The mixer is tonight. You're going to ask her out!" Marco shoved on Jean's back with his hands, but the kid just wouldn't move. "Stop pressuring me! They teach you not to do that in Belgium, don't they?"

Marco laughed and pushed harder, until Jean was within five feet of his date. "Yes, and I don't care. Go!" Marco gave him a final push, and the blond almost collided with Mikasa.

"What do you want?" Mikasa Ackerman was gorgeous, but she was never really one for dialogue. Jean scratched the back of his neck, and glanced back at Marco, kind of really wishing he had the guts to ask him out. "Uh, hey… I was wondering… if you had a date to the mixer tonight."

"No, sorry. I don't do dances." Mikasa was also known to be pretty… blunt. She walked out of class directly after, which would have been devastating if Jean actually wanted to go to the damn mixer, but he was inanely relieved that she said no. He erased the small smirk of relief on his lips and replaced it with slight dejection, and slinked back to where Marco stood on the corner of the room. "What'd she say, man?"

"She said no. Guess I'm not going," Jean hoped Marco would leave it at that, but he really wasn't expecting him too.

"That's not happening. You're going to the damn mixer– what if… we just go together? You know, total stag night. Just the two of us and three hundred drunk strangers." Jean was basically in Nirvana– Marco might as well have asked him out on a date, even though he was sure and kind of disappointed that it wasn't his intention.

Play it off, Kirstein. He doesn't know you're in love with him. Just, chill out. Relax. "You know, that sounds pretty cool. I think I'd like that."  
_

After the last class of the day, Jean and Marco escaped the confines of the class buildings and headed to the dorms. Once both of them had dropped off any textbooks or inhibitions they kept in the daytime, and changed into something more suited for a party, they met back up on the green outside of the main hall. "Ready to go?" Marco asked, and Jean nodded, a little nervous and a lot flustered about Marco in a tight button down.

The club the mixer was at was only about ten minutes down the road, but with NYC traffic on a Saturday night, twenty minutes had gone by without so much as half the distance closed. "God, how many people even live in this city?"

"…A lot of people, Marco."

"Shut up!" Marco was fine in the passenger seat, but he got a little road-ragey when he was behind the wheel.

Jean had been nervous the whole car ride, but when Marco pulled onto the avenue and the two could see the club in the distance, he couldn't take it anymore. "Wait, Marco, no…"

"What is it?"

"… I don't want to do this."

"What do you mean? Jean, you've been talking about this mixer for a month!"

"I know, I'm sorry, I just… I don't want to go anymore. Just drop me off over there and I'll walk back to the dorms. You go and have fun." Jean pointed to the corner and tried to sound enthusiastic, but he failed miserably as his hand started to shake along with his voice.

Marco pulled into a place on the curb and parked, crossing his arms and looking at Jean, who was avoiding eye contact at all cost. "What's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. I just don't want beer spilled on my new Chucks."

"You're a terrible liar, you know that, right?" Jean glared, but Marco only laughed which made Jean smirk a tiny bit.

"Am not. Doesn't change the fact that I'm going home to watch Netflix and eat the leftovers from last night." Jean opened the door and got out of the car, beginning to head back towards the college, but Marco quickly followed suit. He didn't really want to go to the mixer, either– but he would've gone if it was with Jean.

"Fine, but I hope there's no fish. No way I'm eating day old Nemo." Jean laughed, almost embarrassingly loud, and Marco laughed with him; you wouldn't have known it was New York and in the twenties if you'd heard the warmth in their tones.

The two walked around the corner and grabbed hot chocolate from a small niche on the avenue, and made their way to the college common grounds. A small bench was covered in snow under a towering oak, and the pair sipped their drinks as Jean cleared off the bench and sat down, Marco following.

"So, how often do you write?" Marco asked, trying to weed out Jean's confessions just because he wanted to hear him say it.

"Every day, pretty much… Keeps the skills tuned, I guess." Jean was seriously nervous– Not only were the two alone, with hot chocolate in the snow under the shade of a tree, but he couldn't get his mind off the fact that Marco's thigh was pressed against his own and his arm was slung over the back of the bench, with his thumb tracing circles along the wood and touching Jean's shoulder every so often, making every word that echoed in his mind shout when that jolt of ice hit him.

"What do you write about?" Marco asked.

"…Unimportant stuff. Birds chirping in the morning, weather, global issues. Bad story ideas, you know, one's I'll never develop into actual… novels…" Jean was interrupted by the light touch of a fingertip on his chin, and when he turned his head, his lips met with Marco's.

In that moment, the past 5 months were shuffled and cracked and flashed in Jean's mind– he remembered being scared of Marco rejecting him, being scared of Marco never talking to him again, being scared of the fear and the lost love and the pain that never seeing his hazel eyes again would bring; he remembered falling in love with Marco Bodt again and again, every day, writing him down into the history of his five year old notepad, into immortality and into memory; he remembered how he dreamt of this kind of feeling, this kind of love when he was younger, and he remembered how he thought he would never find it.

And it was a supernova.


End file.
